Against the Odds

Chapter Ten

Admiral Minor Arash Livadhi stared blindly at the wall of his office. With the star had come considerably more work than he’d anticipated, despite Admiral Serrano’s honest attempt to make the changeover easy on him. Not only were all the experienced flag officers gone, but so were a startling number of the senior NCOs. Anyone who had had a rejuvenation . . . he hadn’t ever noticed how many personnel had had a rejuv; he hadn’t even decided what he’d do when his own number came up in a few years.

And now the mutiny, and all those personnel were coming back—the fit ones at least. The gossip mill, operating at translight speed through illicit private communications on Fleet ansibles, warned that former admirals were moving right back into their places, and the recently promoted were scrambling to find a place. He wondered what he was supposed to do. Go back to ship command? It would be easier, and he knew himself to be a good captain. But his ship—he still thought of his last command as his ship—and his crew were far away, over on the Benignity border, under a new captain.

He considered the forces available. Heris Serrano’s ship was here and she’d been assigned another, halfway across Familias Space. He knew many of her crew, and they knew him. Perhaps he should volunteer to take it? Otherwise the incoming admiral he expected any day would certainly question why he hadn’t assigned someone already, why it wasn’t out on patrol like the others.

It made sense, in more ways than one. Arash did not like considering all the ways; there were things in his life he preferred to forget and ignore. If no one knew, no one would be hurt by the knowledge. That Heris Serrano’s ship, and Heris Serrano’s crew, might be insurance against that discovery, he didn’t quite allow himself to recognize.

He might as well prepare the ship; he might as well make a plan that would convince the incoming admiral of his good intentions. He called in his clerk. “Please inform the officer in charge aboard Vigilance—”

“That’ll be Lt. Commander Mackay,” his clerk said.

“That I need to see him at his earliest convenience.”

“I’m sure you’ve wondered why Vigilance wasn’t sent out on patrol,” he began.

“Yes . . . we thought at first we were waiting for Commander Serrano to return.”

“Of course. But she was assigned to Indefatigable—I frankly thought they’d be revising the assignments as soon as people had time to recover from the first shock, so I didn’t hurry to put someone into Vigilance. Out here on the border is the ideal place for a combat-experienced commander, and I thought she’d be back. But apparently not. Now we know another flag officer’s coming to take over this headquarters, and I’m going to ask for Vigilance myself. I know that any ship Heris Serrano has commanded will be combat-ready, and she and I have been friends for years.”

“I see, sir.” The response wasn’t as whole-hearted as he would have liked. “The crew will be glad to get out of dock and into space again. Does the admiral think the new admiral will agree?”

“I expect so,” Arash said. “Why not? A few months behind a desk doesn’t make me overqualified for ship command.”

“Of course, sir.”

“In any case, whoever gets her will probably use her for his flagship. We should be putting the extra communications gear aboard and making sure there’s space for the admiral’s staff.”

The lieutenant commander grinned. “Sir, we anticipated that she might become a flagship, and most of that’s in place. If the admiral has time, he might want to come aboard and look over the changes.”

“I’ll make the time,” Arash said.

Converting any ship to flag service meant squeezing in the extra staff and their equipment as well as their supplies. Arash noted that Vigilance’s crew had put the flag functions some distance aft of the bridge, but in line with it, displacing the senior officers’ wardroom. This was one of the two commonest configurations for large cruisers; the other put the flag space directly across the port corridor from the bridge access, but that was a busier area, and most admirals preferred the aft location. With duplication of bridge readouts and communications, it was just as convenient. Arash approved.

Not entirely to his surprise, Vida Serrano arrived to take her own office back. Arash did his best to conceal the chagrin with which he noticed her staff’s burst of enthusiasm. They had worked well for him, but he had never had the kind of warm reception they showed her. The Serrano mystique, he thought sourly, and wondered for a moment if his request to take over Heris Serrano’s ship was such a good idea as it had seemed before. But Admiral Serrano brought up the topic before he could sheer away. It was clear she thought admirals minor with combat experience should be out there in fighting ships.

“I’d be commanding from a ship myself if my orders didn’t specifically prohibit it,” she said. “You’d better take Vigilance—Heris’s exec will make you a good flag captain, I don’t doubt—”

“That’ll be fine, Admiral,” Arash said. “But actually, I was thinking of Commander Burleson. He’s been with me quite awhile; we’re used to working together. He has combat experience; he was my XO on Firedrake and then again on Emperor Roy.”

“Well . . . someone you’re used to could be a real help. I was hoping to keep Burleson on staff here, but you’ll be the one under fire.”

“Thank you, sir.” Arash managed not to heave an audible sigh of relief. He was sure Heris’s exec was capable, or more, but the man’s coolness towards him would make it just that bit more difficult to work together. Would the man resent being displaced?

“In that case, I think I’ll give Mackay a ship. You can find someone for your exec, can’t you?”

“Of course, Admiral.” With Burleson and . . . Keller, yes . . . he would have two people who were comfortable with him. And Mackay wouldn’t see himself as shunted aside if he were given a ship. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re quite welcome. I’m just sorry more of Heris’s crew isn’t available.”

It would work out, he told himself. He told himself that again when he packed up his things and had them taken over to Vigilance, and when he went aboard. Heris’s crew—his now—certainly gave every evidence of superb training. They rendered the honors due an admiral minor coming aboard a flagship with precision and enthusiasm.

“Welcome aboard, Admiral,” Lt. Commander Mackay said. “We’re looking forward to some action.”

“Congratulations on your new command,” Arash said. “I hear your ship’s in transit, due in a few days.”

“Yes, sir.” Mackay grinned. “I hate to leave old Vigilance, but—my own ship—”

“You’ve earned it,” Arash said. Inspiration struck. “Look here—we’re all dealing with scratch crews—if you’d like to take a few people you know along with you, I’m sure we can work something out.”

Mackay looked relieved. “Are you sure, sir? Admiral Serrano said they still hadn’t found me an exec, and there’s a fine young fourth officer aboard. He’s a bit junior, but—”

“Go ahead,” Arash said. “You ought to have someone you’re comfortable with, on your first ship. I’ll take a replacement—with the rest of this crew as experienced as they are, it’s not a problem.”

“Thanks, sir. When will Captain Burleson be coming aboard?”

“Tomorrow morning, I think. He had a dental checkup—tried to get out of it, but the surgeons grabbed him.”

He seemed enthusiastic, and Arash—who had met the ships’ officers frequently in the past few days—now felt the same warmth from all of them. He relaxed a little. Serrano mystique was one thing, but the Livadhis knew something about command as well. Admiral Serrano had already complimented him on doing a good job under difficult conditions.

The ones who worried him most, the ones who had been imprisoned on false charges when Heris left Fleet, seemed as cordial as the rest. He made a point of searching them out and greeting them, but he saw nothing in their eyes but respect. Several were now officers, and if mustangs, they were capable mustangs. Heris would have insisted on that, he knew. The ship felt good, the way a happy ship should. Burleson reported the same, once he took over.

He was waiting for the arrival of a light cruiser and some patrol craft that would form his combat group, when word came that mutineer ships had begun hitting commercial vessels as they made the long insystem crawl from jump point to orbital Station.

“Something’s cut them off from their supply base,” was Admiral Serrano’s analysis. “They’ve hit ships carrying Fleet resupply, including weaponry.” She looked at the group in her office. “We’re going to start using convoys; I’m not waiting for HQ on this one. We need the cargos, and we don’t want the mutineers to have them. Admiral Livadhi, there’s a supply run heading next week. You’ll direct the convoy. We’re not announcing it; they’ll find out soon enough.”

Organizing the convoy took several days. The civilian captains of the ships involved did not like the restrictions which a convoy would place on them; they argued that Fleet should simply have enough patrols in any system to protect them. Arash wore his voice out explaining why this wouldn’t work and finally had to ask Admiral Serrano to intervene. They had Fleet contracts for some of their cargo, and therefore, she said, they were under Fleet control until those cargos were delivered.

“Might as well be mutineers,” muttered one of the captains.

“Think again,” Vida Serrano said. “They take ears.”

“Uh?”

“Ears cut from the bodies they leave behind. Take a look.” She handed out flatpics of the carnage the mutineers had left behind on the Saffron Dynasty and the Settis III. The captains blenched and gave in.

The convoy moved out toward the jump point in a ragged formation flanked by four patrol ships and two escorts, with Vigilance in the lead. Arash had read that in wet navies ships could zigzag to avoid raiders, but zigzags were impractical in space, especially for ships which lacked the ability to microjump. He did insist on their practicing some maneuvers in formation, but Eliza Garnerin came within 1300 meters of Haboob, and so terrified both captains that it took all Arash’s persuasive skill to keep them from dropping out altogether. “We know there aren’t any mutineers in this system,” one of them said. “We could just stay here . . .”

On that first run to the more distant pickets, they met no mutineers. Arash’s force stood by while supplies were moved from the cargo ships to those keeping station. They repeated the actions in one system after another, and Arash felt a growing confidence in both Vigilance and the others under his command. He overheard—and knew he was meant to overhear—favorable comments on his leadership. More importantly, his staff heard even more.

Still, he worried. The mutineers’ leader, supposedly, was one Solomon Drizh, and Arash had reason to wish it had been someone else. They had both served under Admiral Lepescu, as young men, and they had both fallen under the spell of his dubious charms. Arash had survived one witch-hunt for old Lepescu connections because Lepescu had made it clear that he despised the young Livadhi. The scornful phrases still rang in his ears . . . I had thought better of a man of your family . . . there’s backbone in your breeding, boy; what happened to you?

Others had heard that scorn; it had been a permanent blot on his service record—the only one—ever since. Yet, in the long run, a good turn, for being known as an object of Lepescu’s contempt was, after Lepescu’s death, far better than being known as his protégé. Now, however, Drizh and the other mutineers had brought Lepescu’s Loyal Order of Game Hunters to Fleet’s attention. If Fleet mounted a search for potential mutineers among Lepescu’s old associates, what else might they turn up?

He could tell, from the reactions of his staff and crew, that none of this turmoil showed on his face. It shouldn’t, he thought wryly, for he had had years to perfect his calm. It was so unfair . . . he had never intended to do anything but the duty he was sworn to. He had not meant to jump from one very hot frying pan into an even hotter fire, and the displeasure of Lepescu and his supporters should have been fire enough.

But it wasn’t. A scalding worm of that fire crawled through his belly as he tried not to think about it. Warned by Lepescu that members of his own family were members of the Loyal Order of Game Hunters, Arash Livadhi dared not go to them. He had turned, in the hell Lepescu made of his life, to the only friend he could count on. An outsider, from a colony world, but undaunted by the difficulties that placed in the way of a Fleet career. Jules made friends with everyone, mended quarrels, and—to Arash’s relief—had never been acceptable to Lepescu because of his total disinterest in blood sports. Tubby, cheerful Jules, who always had time to listen, whose advice was so often just what one wanted to hear.

When, Arash wondered, filling in the reports he would have to file on his return, had Jules first asked him to do something he should not? And how could he have known? Young officers helped each other out—friends helped each other out. Everyone expected that, and always had. A little here, a little there. And only because Jules was his good friend, who had stood by him when (it seemed) the whole ship turned against him with Lepescu’s disfavor. Jules had done him more than one good turn, too.

If he had known . . . but hard as he poked and prodded his reluctant memory, he could not find any unequivocable clue to Jules’ real nature. Not until many years later, when it was far too late. Not until it would have meant his career, if not his life, to let the truth be known.

“So,” the mutineers’ commander said. He wore what looked like an ordinary Regular Space Service uniform, though Cecelia wasn’t sure about the rank insignia. His nametag read Adm-m Drizh. “You’re the one who killed Admiral Lepescu.”

Cecelia had forgotten her close involvement with Admiral Lepescu’s death. She managed not to say “Oh . . . him . . .” as if she blew away dozens of people a year. “Actually I didn’t shoot him myself,” she said. From the expression on the man’s face, that didn’t improve her situation.

“Useless old woman,” the mutineers’ commander said. “If it weren’t for people like you, we would have our rightful place.”

Six feet under and well tamped down, Cecelia thought. And it was indeed our fault that we didn’t recognize you and put you where you belong.

“But you’ll learn,” he said. “You’ll learn what we’re capable of.”

Wasting time making pompous speeches, Cecelia thought. The mark of a second-rate—no, make that third-rate—mind, was this tendency to pontificate.

“Take them to the brig,” the commander said, with a wave of his hand. The menacing NEMs closed in.

The brig was much as she’d imagined military prisons: cramped, bare, ugly, and uncomfortable. And secure. What she hadn’t expected, on a mutineers’ ship, was the number of prisoners crammed into the cells. Why didn’t they just kill the loyalists? Or were their own personnel so troublesome?

The guards shoved her and Miranda into a six-bunk cell with eight other women, who stared at them with sullen suspicion. One was curled up, arms clasped around her knees; she had given them only a brief glance before putting her bruised face down again.

“This is not what I had in mind,” Cecelia said to Miranda, “when I suggested a trip for your health. Sorry.”

Miranda looked around the cell, then at Cecelia as if she couldn’t believe what she’d heard. “I scarcely think—”

“I know it’s not my fault. But I feel the need to apologize. There we were, supposedly safe from all alarms until we arrived, and then—WHAM.”

“What—who are you?” asked one of the women, whose pepper—and-salt hair was clipped close to her head. “Where are we?”

Cecelia gave her a direct smile. “I’m Cecelia de Marktos and this is my friend Miranda Meager. We were on our way to the Guerni Republic, and two hours into what should have been a safe jump, we were knocked loose and back into realspace.”

The woman leaned closer, speaking softly. “But where—do you know where we—where the ship is?”

Could she trust this woman? Not yet, anyway.

“No,” Cecelia said. “I got the course from a standard navigation package, and whatever knocked us out fouled up the drives and the navigation. When your captain picked us up, I thought we were being rescued . . .”

The other woman grimaced. “No such luck . . .”

“No. And I feel it’s entirely unjustified. We’re private citizens—”

“Wait—” the other woman said. “Miranda . . . Meager? Any relation to Brun Meager?”

Damn. She hadn’t wanted to use the Thornbuckle name, but of course Brun had made the other just as notorious.

“I’m her mother,” Miranda said softly. “Why?”

“And you’re Cecelia de Marktos . . . aren’t you that friend of Heris Serrano’s, the one who shot Lepescu?”

“I didn’t shoot Lepescu,” Cecelia said. “Heris did. But I would have.” If she hadn’t fainted, something that still annoyed her. So she’d been in an old body at the time, that was no excuse.

“But I thought you were old,” the woman said.

“I am,” Cecelia said. “But I rejuved a few years ago. Someone poisoned me, and it was the only way to full recovery.”

“I saw something about that,” said another woman. “And it was after that you were with Commander Serrano at Xavier?”

“Yes.” From the looks on their faces, they all knew about Heris Serrano. They would, of course, especially if they were loyalists. “I gather you’re all loyalists?”

“Yeah,” said the first woman who had spoken.

“Why didn’t they just kill you?” asked Cecelia, who hadn’t been able to get that off her mind.

“Cecelia!” Miranda looked as shocked as she sounded.

“It is the operative question,” the first woman said. “She has to wonder if we’re decoys or something, to sneak information out of you.” She grinned complicitly at Cecelia and stuck out her hand. “I’m Chief Jones, by the way, milady.”

“Call me Cecelia,” Cecelia said. “Or ‘Dammit Cece!’ if you’re in a hurry.”

“Right, then. I’m not entirely sure why they haven’t killed some of us—but some of us are serving as entertainment for their troops.” She nodded at the silent young woman huddled on the bunk, who hadn’t yet looked up. “Besides the obvious, they seem to get a lot of fun taunting us about how stupid we were not to join them at the beginning.”

“I see. They must be pleasant to live with. . . .” Her mind raced as the words drawled out in her most ladylike manner. She saw a moment’s shock, then Chief Jones grinned.

“You could say that.”

Miranda spoke up. “Does this place have a . . . er . . .”

“Head, milady?” Miranda, Cece noticed, still received an honorific. But she looked utterly confused at the term. “Just over there—it’s not flushable, sorry.” That attempt at humor also passed Miranda by, Cecelia saw by the momentary horror on her face as she saw the stinking bucket. “They like this part best, I think.”

Miranda drew herself up and managed to grin back. “Well, a fascination with excretion does define a certain kind of mind.” She made no move to use the bucket, but instead held out her hand to Chief Jones. “Let’s forget the whole ladyship business—I’m Miranda to my friends, and you look more like a friend than anyone I’ve seen on this ship yet . . . except Cece.”

“Right, Miranda.” Chief Jones looked around. “You might as well get to know all the crowd.” She pointed them out as she gave their names. “We have Sgt. Tiraki—Gwen’s our engineering specialist—” Gwen Tiraki had a small, earnest face and the calloused hands of someone who used them for something other than pushing buttons. “She can fix just about anything, or build something that works better. Then there’s Sgt. Dirac—we call her Dusty because her mother named her something no one can say—who’s a scan specialist.”

“You worked with Koutsoudas, didn’t you, Lady—uh—Cecelia?”

“Amazing man,” Cecelia said. “I’m a total idiot; he taught the ones who could learn.” She had recognized the enthusiast hoping for enlightenment; this was no time for it, even if she’d had the knowledge Dirac wanted.

“Petty Light Donaldson—Gerry’s also a scan specialist. Petty Major Sifa—Pilar was in charge of the repair section for communications and scan. Petty Light Kouras—Jen’s a drive technician; so is Petty Light Hartung.” She glanced at the huddled figure. “Pivot Anseli Markham. She’s here to keep us quiet.” Her voice hardened. “If we do something they don’t like, they torment her.”

“How bad is she?” Cecelia asked, keeping her voice down.

“Physically—one day in a regen tank would help, but she’s not in danger without it. Mentally, she’s close to the line if not over it. She was a nice kid, but one of those who really depended on all the rules. Now they’re gone, and she’s . . .” Chief Jones made a wavy motion with her hand.

Cecelia glanced at Miranda, whose face was white; she realized that Miranda saw Brun in that huddled figure, Brun who had suffered alone, far away from anyone who cared. She glanced back at Cecelia, and Cecelia nodded. “Miranda can at least sit with her,” Cecelia said. Chief Jones nodded.

It had not escaped Cecelia’s notice that Jones had not given her first name, but she thought it was a matter of command—something she had begun to understand while traveling with Heris.

Miranda merely looked at the space next to Anseli, and Pilar Sifa stood up; Cecelia fought her stubborn mouth and managed not to grin. Miranda sat down and somehow—without seeming to move—made an inviting curve of her arm. Still without looking up, Anseli leaned into it, her shoulders beginning to shake. Miranda leaned over her.

“Mothers,” Chief Jones said. She sounded more resigned than anything else. “I don’t know how they do it . . . but I’m glad she’s here. None of us have children.”

“Nor do I,” Cecelia said. “Never wanted any, myself. I have relatives enough.”

Chief Jones chuckled. “One of my sisters has six, and the other four. One of ’em claims I joined Fleet just so I wouldn’t have to help her diaper them . . .”

“I was the oldest of six,” Sgt. Tiraki said. “I’d done all the child care I ever want to do by the time I joined Fleet.”

“You’re sure you don’t have any idea where we are?” Chief Jones asked.

Cecelia glanced around the cell; Jones nodded. “All I know is what the emergency locator system told me.” She gave the coordinates. “That’s supposed to be a couple of jump points away from Copper Mountain, the closest inhabited system.”

“It’s the commander’s bucket,” Chief Jones said.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s an Academy thing, sera. Officers tend to pick places—off the usual routes—where they can rendezvous with friends. They call it their bucket.”

“Sounds like a recipe for conspiracies to me,” Cecelia said.

Jones nodded. “It certainly can be, but in my experience young officers just like to feel they have something private, some secret. The Academy pushes them hard, turns them inside out. Probably most of them never use their bucket once they’re well into their careers. Did your locator tell you whether this system had an ansible?”

“It does.” Should she tell Jones that she’d tried to get a message out, but was sure she’d failed? No. What good would that do?

“I think you fancy ladies should have the shit detail this time,” the guard said. “Let’s see now—Red or Blondie?”

“Oh, I think both,” the other guard said. “Both of ’em need to learn a few basic skills.” Cecelia looked at Miranda, but could not read her expression beyond mild distaste.

“Pick up the bucket,” said the first guard, with no more humor in his voice. “Each of you—one hand. You’ll both carry it.”

The bucket stank and was within a few centimeters of overflowing. The round handle on the bail wasn’t big enough for both their hands, having been intended for one-hand carries, and it was hard to grasp part on, part off. The thinner bail dug into her fingers; the bucket was heavier than she’d expected.

They lifted together, but Cecelia was taller, and the bucket tipped slightly; a few drops spilled.

“Messy, messy,” the guard said. “You’ll have to clean that up when you get back.” The guards gave each other a smug grin.

It was remarkably difficult, Cecelia discovered, to carry an almost full bucket with someone of a different height, someone whose rhythm of movement you didn’t know. Harder, when it was necessary to sidle through the half-open cell door . . . a trail of smelly drops followed them out of the cell, down the corridor.

“Keep going, girls,” the guards said, falling in behind them. Cecelia’s back crawled; she hated having people behind her like this anyway and these . . . she concentrated on the slithery movement of the liquid in the bucket, trying to compensate for Miranda’s movement with her own, trying not to spill.

Another guard stepped out in front of them suddenly. “That’s far enough!” he said. One of the guards bumped into Cecelia; she lurched forward, and a splash of liquid filth hit the deck.

“You’re a clumsy bitch,” the guard said. He sounded more pleased than angry. “Now you have more to clean up, Red.”

“It’s not my fault!” Cecelia said. “You pushed me!”

“Wrong answer, Red,” the guard said. “Blondie—take your hand off the bucket.” Miranda let go, but slowly enough that Cecelia could take the weight of the bucket without spilling any more. “Blondie, turn and face the bulkhead . . . the wall, you stupid civvie. Snuggle right up to it.”

When Miranda stood, face to the wall, the guards surrounded Cecelia. One after another gave her a sharp nudge; she managed to stand balanced, not spilling any more.

“You’re going to clean it all up, Red, by yourself. And there’ll be plenty to clean—” Instead of a nudge, this was a hard shove, that sent her careening into one of the others, who pushed her back.

It took her hours to clean the floor to their satisfaction, with the single small rag they allowed. Meanwhile, Miranda struggled back and forth with the slop pails from the other cells, emptying them and scrubbing them clean. Her guards harrassed her verbally but didn’t make her spill any more. Yet. Cecelia knew more harrassment would come.

Just when she thought they were finished, the guards told them both to clean the guards’ latrine; they gave Miranda a little rag like hers and pushed them both into the latrine. It had two urinals, two stalls, four sinks, and a shower. That took another hour or so, because the guards swore they had missed a speck here in this corner or on top of that mirror or behind that pipe.

At the end of that first day, Cecelia hurt from her toes to the top of her head and all the way past her fingertips. Her knees were sore and her back hurt; her hands were red and raw; her bruises were darkening. Miranda looked tired too, her palms marked with the red lines of the bucket bails, but at least she hadn’t had to crawl around on her knees all day.

But they were alive, she reminded herself, and alive was better than dead. So far.

Supper was a meagre bowl of some unflavored gruel, sipped without utensils from a plastic bowl which had to be handed back. Someone from another cell was brought out to wash the bowls afterward.

Then the lights dimmed, and Chief Jones explained that they were allowed to sleep only during this shift—so four of the ten had to sleep on the deck, with barely room to stretch out.

“We rotate bunk and floor assignments,” she said. “You’re numbers nine and ten, so I’ve redone the rotations. Six nights out of ten, each person gets a bunk. Four nights, the floor. What we did was put numbers in a pile, and draw them out—what was left was yours. You’re four, Miranda, in the rotation, and Cecelia, you’re nine. We’re starting fresh, so that means Miranda has a bunk the next four days. Cecelia, you have the floor.”

“But she worked harder,” Miranda said. Chief Jones cocked an eye at Cecelia.

“That’s all right,” Cecelia said. “I’m tired enough to sleep on anything.”

“Good. Pipe down, everyone.”

Despite what she’d said, Cecelia found the floor hard and unforgiving, with a nasty cold draft. No matter what position she lay in, something hurt, mostly a fresh bruise. She slept, off and on, but it was nothing like a real rest.

She woke to a clangor that turned out to be the guards hammering on metal buckets.

“Rise and shine! Get off those bunks, you lazy bums!”

After some days of this, the guards abruptly handed them mops and sponges. “Use these—you’ve got more to clean than just this head, and the way you work, it’d take you a month with rags.” After they’d cleaned the guards’ latrine, they were taken out of the brig area and down the corridor. Cecelia glanced through doorways they passed and saw stacked bunks in rows. Crew housing? It must be. The guards kicked open a door into a huge tiled room . . . urinals on this wall, toilet stalls on that, rows of shower stalls, rows of sinks. “Start at that end, and don’t miss anything!” one ordered.

“And you’ll need these,” the other said. He unlocked a cabinet in which were toilet bowl brushes and jugs of chemicals labelled for their intended use.

Cecelia headed for the far end and dipped a brush in a toilet bowl; Miranda, without saying a word, went to the urinals. Aside from choosing a urinal she’d already cleaned to use, the guards didn’t harrass them that day. Cecelia scrubbed, polished, mopped, and cleaned, as if she’d been born a janitor. The guards lounged near the door, clearly bored.

Within a few days they were spending all day every day cleaning four latrines—the guards’, and three others on the crew deck. Cecelia was able to describe to Chief Jones, in detail, what equipment was being stored where: exactly what chemicals were in the equipment closets where they picked up and returned mops, brooms, sweep-vacs, brushes, and sponges, exactly how many people were usually around in each corridor and head (she’d finally taken to using the military term, when the Chief kept reminding her of it).

Day by day, she brought in more information, a snippet at a time . . . and day by day, their guards became more and more bored. To amuse themselves, they occasionally dirtied an area the women had cleaned and demanded that it be cleaned again, and as they’d decided the women feigned exhausted submission. That wasn’t much fun; the guards began sneaking off singly. They never actually left the women alone and unwatched, but they weren’t anywhere near as alert as before. Cecelia had time to think. And one sleep shift, she told Chief Jones what had occurred to her, the answer to a question that had puzzled her since her capture.

“I know what they want you alive for,” Cecelia said.

Chief Jones shrugged. “Prisoner exchange . . . ransom . . .”

“No. They want you for prey.”

Chief Jones stared at her, expressionless except for the slight widening of her eyes. “Prey.”

“When I was on Sirialis, when Admiral Lepescu was killed—when Heris Serrano shot him—that’s what he was doing. Hunting people. As sport.”

The Chief’s eyes narrowed and focussed far behind Cecelia’s face. “They want a hunt, do they?” Then she refocussed on Cecelia’s face, and her mouth widened slowly to a feral grin. “Fine. We’ll give them a hunt . . . we start now. Here.”

Cecelia had been prepared for shock, for anger, but not for this almost glee. “But—” she started but Jones shook her head.

“No. There is only one answer. It must not be their hunt, but ours.”